


Say Please

by Kyonomiko



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-12 04:06:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15331350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyonomiko/pseuds/Kyonomiko
Summary: Hermione Granger needs something from Draco Malfoy.  She's tried asking nicely, but he wants more.





	Say Please

“I’m sorry, what?”  
Hermione Granger sits blinking at the Malfoy heir, a dainty tea cup in her lap, the contents going cold.  
It’s been one year since the war. A war since Tom Riddle fell to her best friend’s year one spell. Twelve months since witches and wizards the world over could breathe a collective sigh of relief and go about the task of mourning and rebuilding. Hermione has spent the last ten months of that time trying in vain to restore the memories she stole from her parents.  
As a last resort, having exhausted the resources at St. Mungos as well as any favors she could call in from the surviving faculty at Hogwarts and members of the Order, she began researching private mind healers; an option she can hardly afford.  
The best of them, it seems, has been under exclusive contract with the Malfoy family for over fifty years, having been hired at a young age by Abraxas Malfoy, Draco’s grandfather. He is under binding vow to only service the Malfoy family and their associates, and only then by strict permission of the head of family. As of last June and Lucius Malfoy’s involuntary expatriatism from wizarding Britain, that title of family patriarch belongs to Draco.  
Hermione came here today, at the manor where she was once carved up under a madwoman’s whim, to plead her case. She had seen Draco at his trial where he had seemed humbled and afraid. She, along with Harry and even Ron, had spoken on his behalf. His refusal to positively identify them at this very home served to free him with barely a slap on his proverbial wrist. Their interactions since then have been few, but he has been very polite every time. He held the door open for her at a bakery a few weeks ago. He went out of his way to greet her at a Ministry function just last month, complimentary her dress and asking after her familiar, Crookshanks, of all things.  
Now, having said her piece, she is dumbfounded by, first, how quiet he has been through the exchange, studying her like an insect pinned, and then, by his unexpected response.  
“I said, I’d love to fuck you, Granger.” His voice is a purr. Smooth as silk, velvet soft.  
“I don’t… I mean… why? You hate me.” That is maybe a little dramatic, as civil as he has been the past few months, but all she hears pounding in her head is Mudblood from his sneering pre-pubescent face.  
She watches him rise, and doesn’t protest when he takes the cup and saucer from her hand. Placing himself beside her on the sofa, Draco brushes a lock of hair off her neck, knuckles trailing over her cheek. “Now, that is a very misinformed opinion. I think the better question is: Why wouldn’t I want to fuck you?”  
He leans closer, his hand settled at the base of her neck, kneading slowly. Closer still, until the tip of his nose is nearly brushing the side of hers, his lips so near her cheek she can feel the vibration of his words on her skin. “Why, in Merlin’s name, wouldn’t I want to be stuffed inside your pretty pink slit? What possible reason could I have not to covet your beautiful little arse under my hands, my cock filling you up until you are begging for release?  
At the virtual speed of light, Hermione is as revved up as she is disgusted. Draco is an incredibly handsome man. She could never deny his attractiveness, even when she hated him before the war. To hear him now, whispering filthy things to her, so close she could climb in his lap and make it all come true… A strong, independent witch she may be, but that’s just fucking hot.  
Then again, she came here to ask a favor, a rather large and personal one, and this is his response?  
“Is that what you’re asking then?” she wants to know. Is this the price she has to pay for his compassion? It’s not that she is a stranger to sex at this stage in her life, a failed relationship with both Ron Weasley and Viktor Krum under her belt, but the deal feels dirty. It’s not sex he’ll be taking, it’s her integrity.  
“I’m not asking anything, Granger. I’m telling you: I want you. What you do with that isn’t up to me.”  
He’s leaving it as her choice. Is it her only option? She could search out other private healers. She understands the Greengrass family keeps one on their payroll as well. Unfortunately, Malfoy’s man is supposed to be the best, a foremost authority on mind magics and obliviation.  
Is it her only option? No. But it’s the best.  
She searches his grey eyes, finding his expression stoic. Serious. Does he even really want this? Does he really think he will enjoy it, or is he just pushing her response? And ultimately, does it even matter what his motives are?  
She thinks, instead, of her parents: The Grangers who believe their name to be Wilkins. They have settled in efficiently into their new lives, but there is a melancholy about them. Hermione visited them over the summer and found them to be vaguely dissatisfied, though they couldn’t seem to tell her why. She had introduced herself as merely a Londoner on vacation, happy to find someone from back home. When she thinks of their sort-of-sad smiles, and the healers she has consulted informing her that they will likely live with an odd sense of question, of sorrow, that might increase with time, she can’t imagine a world in which she will deny their possible savior anything.  
“Fine.” Hermione pulls away and stands quickly, suddenly both resigned and rather uncomfortable, that she intends to go through with his demands. “When?”  
For just a moment, he looks surprised. Maybe he didn’t even expect her to accept. Maybe this was just a trick to drive her away so he wouldn’t have to comply.  
Then his face smooths back out and he favors her with a crooked, if very minimal, grin. “Valentine’s Day is this weekend,” he comments. “Let me take you to dinner.”  
“If it’s all the same, Malfoy, I’d rather just get it done.”  
He screws up his mouth in annoyance and growls, “It’s not all the same, thanks ever so. We’re doing this right or not at all.”  
More bizarre by the moment, Hermione is confused by his behavior. What possible motivation could he have to extort her into sex, but then try to play the gentleman about it?  
Her lips thin, and she nods sharply once. “Your choice, then.”  
Draco claps his hands once and stands, smiling broadly. “Excellent. I’ll pick you up then at half six at your flat.”  
“I live-“  
He waves his hands and interrupts, “I know where you live.”  
Well, that’s not creepy.  
“Please dress in semi-formal attire for the evening. I’d like to take you somewhere special.”  
XXXXX  
True to his word, Draco arrives at her flat at precisely half past six and tells her that, apparently, ‘somewhere special’ is a portkey to Spain. Dressed in a fitted, navy blue cocktail dress, Hermione has chosen to use minimal make up and leave her hair down. It will likely be mussed by the end, anyway. She may as well forego the extra effort.  
The restaurant he escorts her to is one of the most romantic she’s ever experienced. They share an intimate meal together, tasting small plates and discussing, first, the wine and atmosphere, and then details about their lives since the war.  
Draco is his most charming. He’s nothing like the petulant, spoiled boy he had been before the war, and nor is he the broken, terrified young man she had seen at his trial. This is a wizard she barely recognizes, and only from those brief interactions in their recent past. He’s witty and sharp, laughs freely, and was complimentary from the moment he arrived at her door. “You’re beautiful,” he had said. Not, ‘you look beautiful’ or ‘you clean up nice’, but a simple statement as if it’s true to him every day.  
By dessert, Hermione has had enough wine to relax and is trying to put the notion from her mind that there is a deal being made here; that she is fulfilling her side of a bargain that flirts along the darker edges of a moral grey area.  
“Could I see you home?” He asks, as if there’s a question, and Hermione lets herself believe she still has a choice. He’s not forcing anything, she acknowledges. She has the feeling that if she said ‘no’, he would politely leave, maybe even fulfilling his side of the bargain anyway is he is as sincere as he seems.  
And so, she takes the question seriously. She can’t deny that she’s been watching his lips move and his fingers flex all night. There’s a very real possibility that, over the course of the evening, Hermione has become a bit smitten with him. That just makes it all the more distasteful that this is only for a night: That they are simply making a trade.  
Then again, she slept with Ron because she felt she was supposed to, finally securing his attention after so many years of unrequited (misdirected) crush. She slept with Viktor because he was handsome and sweet and it seemed like a perfectly logical time to lose her virginity. She slept with Percy on one spontaneous occasion, because Ron was an arse in the end and she knew it would kill him. Percy hadn’t seemed to mind, perfectly content to one-up one of his many brothers for once. They both came out satisfied in more ways than one.  
Then, why not sleep with Draco Malfoy because she gets something out of it and he’s sexy as hell and oddly intriguing? Why can’t she use him for what she wants, everything she wants, as surely as he is using her? She makes a decision to stop feeling like a victim and chase her desires. Right now, warm with wine and staring into intense grey eyes across an intimate table, Hermione Granger desires to get laid.  
“Yes, please,” she answers politely, and his smile grows.  
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Draco is vibrating with excitement when they arrive back and Granger’s small but tasteful flat. He had already known where her building was, having discreetly done his proverbial homework. Her trip to the manor had felt like kismet, just as he had been about to proposition her on his own anyway.  
Dinner was delicious, as he knew it would be at his favorite restaurant on the continent. Only the best for Hermione Granger.  
His eyes rove her back as she unlocks her door via muggle method, then removes the wards like the witch she is. Following her inside, and, watching her body move in that fitted navy dress all night, Draco thinks has been plenty patient thus far.  
“Can I get you something to drink?”  
So polite, his little witch. So fucking civil. Draco thinks the time for proper behavior and civility is over.  
Hermione is bent at the waist, peering in to a small cabinet with a bar top and various shapes of glassware. Flutes and goblets and pilsners shine out at him, but Draco isn’t interested, and he tells her so.  
“Thank you, but I didn’t come for a drink, Granger.” He slips in behind her and runs his hands from her waist down her thighs, feeling the smooth satin of her short dress and her tight body beneath.  
She starts to straighten, to stand tall, but he likes her like this. Her perfect arse is tilted up toward him, calves tight and straining in her pumps. Laying a hand on the small of her back, he gently presses her to stay down, hands braced on the top of the bar. “Ah, ah, ah,” he corrects softly. “Just like this, Granger. Let me enjoy you just like this.”  
She complies but looks back at him over her shoulder. There is something in her eyes like defiance. He can only assume she’s used to being in control. There’s time enough for that, Draco thinks. But this time, he’s going to take point.  
“Don’t move, princess.”  
Dropping to his knees, Draco finds his face at just the perfect height for what he has planned. She’s absolutely fucking ideal, as he had known she’d be. He’s been watching her long enough to know.  
His hands that have been petting up and down her thighs, slide toward the center and cup her cheeks before trailing down the backs of her legs. He slides his fingers under her skirt and carefully peels the material up; inch by creamy inch, he reveals her in this way. Legs for days, he finally reaches the crease of her thighs and then bares her arse and her sex. Her lower lips are covered by a thin layer of black silk. Pity. Black is nice, of course, but it’s harder to see if she’s as aroused as he is. The material is less conducive to telling her secrets; showing him with a strip of darker color that she is slick and wet before he has touched her. He will just have to find out on his own.  
Starting with the tip of his index finger, Draco slides the digit down the center of her folds, noting her intake of air. She stifles any sound, but he just can’t have that. He wants her screaming before this is over. His tongue replaces his finger next, tasting her through the silk then sliding the material away and pressing his mouth to her slick heat. This time, she whimpers for him. “Good girl,” he mumbles, his lips vibrating against hers.  
Draco devours her, alternating his licks with lightly suckling at her clit, adding one finger, then two, into her passage. Her whimpers are infrequent at the start, but come faster, mixed with pants and moans as he increases his efforts. Her thighs quiver and she pushes toward him, grinding her cunt against his mouth, fucking his hand and his face with the pulse of her hips.  
When he stops, she whimpers in earnest, but he shushes her concern. “Don’t worry, Granger, you’ll come before we’re finished. Stay put.”  
She does, which almost surprises him. He’s waiting for her stubborn, bossiness to seep through, but so far she’s compliant. “Such a good fucking girl,” he whispers again, praising her, as he unbuttons his trousers. He pushes them down his legs and kicks off his shoes, never taking his eyes off her. Pulling his shirt over his head, he’s completely nude. Something appeals to him about the fact that she’s still mostly clothed. Bent over with her arse in the air, skirt bunched at her waist, there is a rushed and wrong quality that makes it all feel exciting. Like he’s sneaking something that doesn’t belong to him.  
Draco grips his cock in his hand and pumps twice, priming and testing. He throbs hard in his fist. Stepping one pace forward so he is right behind her once again, he slides the head right against her folds, gathering the cream from her slit and feeling her warmth. She whimpers again and wriggles her arse at him in invitation. With a firm hand on her hip, he holds her in place while he continues to slowly pump his shaft with his hand and tease her opening with the tip. “Don’t move, Granger. Stay just like that. Fuck…just like that.”  
She peers back at him again, and the look in her eyes has completely changed. There is no defiance. Her warm brown eyes are shuttered and dark. Eyes that demand. Eyes that beg.  
“Do you want me to fuck you?” He asks. He already told her he wanted her, clear and succinct. No games, no pretense. Now, he wants to hear her say it: Hermione Granger to say she wants him. “Tell me you want this. Say it. Say you want this cock.”  
“Fuck, Draco, yes. I want it... Fuck me, please.”  
He releases the grip he has on himself and snaps his hips, impaling her until his flesh slaps against hers. She groans in response, and she sounds like a fucking dream.  
“Fucking Merlin, yes,” he hisses at her, holding still and enjoying the feel of her wrapped around him completely. “Fuck, Granger, that’s perfect.”  
He thrusts slowly, setting a pace of deep strokes as he continues to pet and touch her everywhere. He snakes one hand around her front and pulls down the top of her dress, revealing her breasts. If her moan is any indication, she quite likes that, so he pays her special attention. Cupping her left breast first, he finds the peak is already tight and hard, and he pinches lightly between his thumb and forefinger. She absolutely writhes as he does, and he regrets he didn’t play with her in this way until now. It’s an oversight easily remedied.  
Taking a quick glance of the room, Draco spies a small sofa with a high back. He finds the zip on her dress and eases it down, continuing his steady thrusting pace as he does. Once the zip reaches the bottom of its placard, he slows, then pulls his cock from inside her. Hermione stands up on instinct and he spins her in place, crashing his mouth against hers for their first kiss, tasting wine and dates on her tongue, mixed with the taste of her cunt on his.  
His hands find her sensitive nipples again, tweaking them to attention and feeling the weight of her full breasts against his palms. As quickly as he can, he yanks her unzipped dress down over his hips, leaving her as bare as he. “Sofa,” he manages between kisses, and leads her toward the furniture in question.  
Flopping down first, he pulls her on top of him, and she slides down his shaft like she belongs there. Draco throws his head back on the pillowed rest and groans out his approval, keeping a hold on her hips and feeling the sway of her as she grinds down desperately. “That’s it,” he encourages her. “Ride me. Fuck me, Hermione.”  
He’s never used her given name. At least not to her face or that wasn’t attached in tandem to her last name like a celebrity. It rolls quite nicely while in the throws. Not as hard and rough as her surname. Feminine and soft, just like her. He imagines he will still her Granger, liking that he has a name for her that no one else uses, but this moment is different and he wants to capture it completely.  
“Holy fuck,” he hears her breathe out, like she’s surprised at how fucking good this is. Like she hadn’t known how thoroughly he would take her.  
Draco is rocking his own hips now, thrusting up into her as she bounces back down on his lap. The pace is rougher, faster than before. He nips and licks at her breasts, suckling them by turns between kissing her hard and licking at her throat. She’s a fucking feast and he’s had trouble knowing where to start.  
“Draco…”  
What a goddamn sweet sound, he thinks. His name from her is a benediction, and he feels utterly fucking blessed.  
“Draco, I’m…hnng…”  
Proud as he is to have made Hermione Granger speechless, to have brought her to her proverbial knees just as he had physically bowed before her, he wants to hear her say it. He knows she’s close to climax, but he wants her to say the words. “Tell me,” he begs. “Are you close, Hermione? Will you come for me?”  
“Yes…”  
“Tell me. Tell me how close you are, beautiful. Tell me, then come on my cock.”  
She pants and then whines out, “I’m so close, Draco. I’m ... Oh fuck, I’m going to come…”  
Her words increase in volume and pitch and Draco thrusts harder, faster, until finally she screams and her body is wracked in shudders of release. She clenches around him, the walls of her passage pulsing and tightening, and Draco follows her, holding her body close and shouting her beautiful name.  
XXXXXXXXXX  
Hermione lets her forehead fall onto Draco’s shoulder, his softening erection still inside her pulsing womb. If this is what it’s like to be used for sex, she’s thinking, sign her up.  
As her heartbeat slows, however, and her brain catches up, a discomfort starts to set in. She’s not sure what to do now. What to say. Does she bring up the healer? Is that uncouth? Like a whore asking for her money? She hadn’t felt like that moments ago. She hadn’t felt cheap and unworthy, a user being used, but thinking of the healer has the effect of tainting the experience.  
Slowly, she extracts herself from his lap and crosses the room to find her dress. She contemplates it, but eventually just grabs her silk robe from the hook on the lavatory door instead. He’s already seen her naked, after all. Does it really matter if she dresses back up in her cocktail dress?  
“I’d take that drink now.” His voice is rough and breathy as he pants with what seems to be a very satisfied exhaustion.  
Her head snaps back to look at him just as she’s securing the tie at her waist. “Excuse me?”  
“The drink. It wasn’t a priority before, but I seem to have worked up a thirst.” He’s giving her that witch-swooning grin she’s seem him wear on the cover of the Daily Prophet. Hermione isn’t sure if she should be flattered he wants to stay, or indignant he hasn’t taken enough from her already.  
“Sure,” she agrees dully, and makes her way back to the bar for glassware and a drink. “I was going to offer port before, since it’s after dinner.”  
“Lovely,” he says, and she goes about pouring them matching drinks.  
When she returns to the sofa, he has donned a pair of silk boxers in a deep aubergine and has his eyes closed, head resting against the back of her couch like he belongs. His pale chest is filling in a slow rhythm, the rise and fall of his breath.  
“Here.” She shoves the glass toward him and then, once he takes it, has a seat on the fireside to his right.  
He frowns at her. “The sofa isn’t that small,” he pouts. He punctuates the point by patting the seat next to him in invitation.  
Incredulous would be the best word to describe how she’s feeling, but she rises and changes seats anyway. What can it hurt? What’s he going to do... Try something funny? She nearly snorts at herself for her sarcastic inner monologue.  
Once she has taken the seat beside him, Draco wraps his arm around her shoulder and pulls her closer. “Give me an hour. Maybe thirty minutes. This time I get to be on top.”  
Hermione turns her head to look at him in question. “This time? You… want to do it again?” Is this still part of the deal, she wants to ask. Not that she hadn’t enjoyed it, but how long is she beholden to his whims before he tosses her aside? She bristles at the imbalance of power in their arrangement.  
The look he gives her is bemused. “I mean, if you’re knackered, I guess we could wait until tomorrow. Can I stay? I could rouse you tomorrow morning in the most delicious way if I wake first.” He wriggles his eyebrows at her and she’s moving at break-neck speed from incredulous to confusion.  
“I… you want to stay? I’m sorry,” she shakes her head, trying to clear it. “I think I’m not understanding. I thought… I mean, didn’t you get what you wanted?”  
Draco frowns again, deeper this time. “I wanted you and I got you, if that’s what you mean, but that doesn’t mean…. Wait. Was this just…?” He removes his arm from around her and clears his throat. “I see.”  
Standing stiffly, she watches him place his port on the table beside the sofa and cross the room to his pile of clothes. “I should have realized,” he says, clipped. “I apologize, Granger.”  
She furrows her brow at him. “Realized what?”  
“I understand, really. Thank you though, for the evening.”  
“I… you’re welcome? Wait, though, what just happened?” Hermione rises and follows him across the room, standing closer but giving him space as he slips his legs into his trousers.  
“It’s fine. I shouldn’t have assumed. You’re a modern witch. A muggleborn. I’m sure this is just the type of thing that’s normal for you.”  
“What’s normal for me?”  
She watches Draco wave his hand around. “This… what do you call it? One night stand? Is that he muggle term? I’m trying to get used to this new world, I really am. I suppose it must have its appeal, these unattached affairs. ”  
He’s buttoning his shirt so quickly that he keeps missing the loop. Looking closer, his hands are shaking and she steps into his space, placing her hand over his to stop him. “Draco?”  
He looks up at her, those pale grey eyes giving nothing away, just like when she visited him at the manor.  
“I’m not sure we’re on the same page. What did you think this was?”  
He scoffs at that, stepping away so she can’t touch him. “Oh, I don’t know…A date? Sorry if that’s too pureblood, too old-fashioned for you,” he sneers defensively.  
“Old-fashioned…? Draco. You propositioned me for sex in exchange for your bloody healer. This is about as modern as it gets.”  
“Propositioned?” He parrots back. “Wait, wait…That’s what you thought? That this was some sort of… arrangement?”  
Hermione stares back, dumbfounded. That’s what it was, wasn’t it? An arrangement? “I just thought… I guess I assumed you just… I don’t know.” She huffs, frustrated, and starts again with more confidence. “I thought maybe you only wanted me just to see if you could. And now that’s done, it just seemed like you would be satisfied.”  
“Why in Merlin’s Blessed Beard would you think that?”  
“Well, I came to see you at the manor to ask for a favor and your response was that you wanted to fuck me. Rather crudely, I might add.”  
“Crudely?!” He repeats, incredulous. “That, Granger, was me seducing you. So, you thought I only wanted you as some sort of barter for Healer Andrews? What the ever-loving fuck?! Why would you even agree to that?”  
“For my parents,” she answers back, now feeling defensive as well. “Were you even listening? I need him for my parents or I may never get them back.”  
“I thought my answer was obvious. Of course I’d help the witch I’m dating. Fuck, it doesn’t even cost me anything. Andrews is on salary.”  
Hermione blinks, completely dumbstruck. He was always going to say yes? Just like that? “So this, tonight… this was just a date?”  
“Just a date,” he spits back sarcastically. “Yes, I guess this was just a silly little date, Granger. I can’t believe you thought… Ugh, you used me. I feel dirty.”  
Well if that isn’t the most ironic thing she’s ever heard. It would be hilarious if it wasn’t so terrible. The past four days she’s been berating herself for selling herself. Being a victim. Feeling like a kept woman at best, a prostitute at worst.  
There are few things in this world that Hermione Granger hates more than being wrong. At the top of the list, is apologizing. Somehow, this time, the wounded look in his eyes and the battered quality of his voice, the words come easy.  
“I’m sorry, Draco. I just… It was right after I told you what I needed and you were just so… aggressive. It seemed implied.”  
“Isn’t that what you Gryffindors respond to? Aggressive, blunt, fool-hardy behavior?”  
She can’t help but grin at that. “So this was your Slytherin sensibilities interpreting what Gryffindors respond to?”  
“Maybe,” he pouts out. Dear Godric, he’s more adorable by the minute. “I suppose I’ll stop wasting your time,” he says, reaching down to grab one shiny dragon-hide shoe, but Hermione stops him and pulls him upright.  
“I thought you wanted to stay,” she says with a cautious but playful smile. He’s searching her eyes and she goes on, taking a chance and a plunge. The smile slips from her face, and she replaces the expression with bite to her lip; equal parts shy and coquettish. “Will you? Stay? You know, I had a wonderful time with you. Have I said? I’ve never had a more perfect date.”  
“Which part?” He’s perked up slightly, but he still has a little jut to his lower lip.  
“All of it,” she answers honestly. “Dinner, conversation… the sofa,” she adds after a pause, tilting her head toward the other side of the room in indication.  
“Even though you though I was bribing you for sex?” He asks with a raise of his brow, but the tone in his voice is already edging toward normal. Hermione is pretty sure she has this wrapped up.  
“If anything,” she placates, “it was disappointing to think it would be one-time only. Stay,” she says again firmly, meaning it more by the minute. “Stay tonight. Muggle one-night stands don’t sleep over, did you know that?” Ok so she’s shooting from the hip here, but he won’t know any better. “It’s like a rule. If you stay, it can’t be like that, so... Don’t go.”  
“You really want me to stay?”  
Where did that confident Slytherin go?  
“I want you to. And tomorrow,” she teases, adding for affect, “you can wake me up in one of those delicious ways you promised, and I’ll take you to breakfast.”  
His grin is coming back now, full force. “You won’t cook for me?”  
“Oh, heavens no,” she laughs. “I’m a lousy cook. But I’m quite adept at other things. It might take a long time to run through them though,” she adds thoughtfully then levels him with a significant look. “Would you like to see what they are?”  
“Yes, please,” he says and then sweeps her up into his arms. She squeals a little in delight and clings to him around his neck. “Which way to the bedroom.”  
She points, “That one. On the left.”  
He strides in that direction and looks down at her as they reach the threshold. “I just want you to know, you’ll be hard pressed to be rid of me now. I’ve wanted you since fifth year.”  
“What… really?” Just when she thinks he can’t surprise her more, he says something like that.  
“You couldn’t tell?” He asks, and then promptly tosses her on the bed and climbs in to loom over her. “Then, I was a better actor then I thought.”  
He kisses her then, softer than before but no less intense. She feels his erection, already hard and insistent, pressed against her thigh.  
“Has it been thirty minutes?” she asks cheekily, and he chuckles in response.  
“Not quite. I may have underestimated the effect you have on me. Shall I show you,” he offers, somehow leering yet breathless. Seductive but seduced.  
She groans and arches against him, feeling a throb between her legs and a thrumming of her heart. “Yes, please.”  
“So fucking polite,” he murmurs, and she makes note to be sure to say please quite often in the days, the weeks, the potential years to come.  
He seems to like it when she asks nicely.


End file.
